What we want is to be brass. / The horn-scratched voice blown through. / Valves as golden as his. Lord as crazy sex / Or first real heartbreak (Peter Brötzmann, poem by Patricia Spears Jones)

Tired of taking solo walks / Across this pretty lonesome town / And always ending up so fucked / Every time that we go out (Rivulets)

And the heat from the asphalt / It was liquid and dancing / And we walked to the front door / Like a rock ’n’ roll band (Jeffrey Foucault)